The Troubled Mind of Sgt Powers
by Waretir
Summary: "I get it, Masterson. You think I'm inhumane, that I'm losing my mind. Maybe I've already lost it. Frankly, I don't care, these freak fingers are the only thing keeping me sane." Rated M for gore and disturbing themes.


During World War II, United States military men mutilated dead Japanese in the Pacific. The mutilation of Japanese soldiers included the taking of body parts as war souvenirs and war trophies. Teeth and skulls were the most commonly taken "trophies", although other body parts were also collected.

Like fingers.

Skulls, while hardly as common as teeth, were collected from dead Japanese soldiers in alarming amounts. On a 1944 issue of Life Magazine they even featured a picture of a lass who got sent a souvenir skull by her boyfriend from overseas. It was looked down on plenty, but it was common enough to make the news. Those were human soldiers being desecrated. The men who collected those trophies still had families back home, even.

Yet Masterson, the mingin' arse, just kept giving him bollocks for cutting off fingers, insignificant little _fingers_, from the Zed. From the freaks. The bloke was a Lieutenant, and he understood on some basic level that being the highest ranking man meant you had to cling to your moral compass and try to keep your men from losing their minds. This was a war any way you spun in, and war is hell. Yes, Powers understood, but he didn't care. The part of him that cared had died with his wife and children.

Sergeant Powers tossed his combat knife between his hands, fingers squeezing the dull rubber of its handle with each catch. Masterson. He'd been told the man had seen things, awful things. Had to endure all the little horrors of Horzine's little experiments before they were unleashed into the rest of London. Now Masterson, Powers, Lewis, Schneider and two blokes from the local police force were tasked with cleaning up the mess. Sure, there were other survivors, God knows how many, fighting for their own survival in the streets. Powers even heard a former squadmate of his was rudely interrupted from spinning tables by a Fleshpound and was fighting his way out of the nightclub district alongside some psycho raver wielding a katana, but as far as he was concerned his squad was the only one with an official mission, actually launching themselves into the fray willingly.

Of course sometimes the brass were a bunch of plastered knob heads and wound up cocking up simple deployments, and you wound up standing outside a burning plane wreck in front of a decrepit manor in the middle of bleedin' nowhere while hoardes of Clots poured from behind the wreckage. Anytime he saw the freaks he saw red, and before he knew it he was watching one of those ugly Clot heads fly off its shoulders as blood splattered across the teeth of the combat knife he'd run through its neck. One, two, three, four, five, six. Each one fell easier than the last, the small group of bodies flopping against the dirt as their heads rolled under the smoldering wreck of the plane and the stench of rotting flesh penetrated his gasmask. He was hardly aware of the gunshots ringing out around him, far too focused on the things in front of him to care. His last tour had been so long, and he had to come back home to find the remains of his family jammed into his doorway like some grisly mail order package?! How was that fair, how could there be a God when things like these were allowed to exist and commit the atrocities they did?! He'd find the Scrake that mutilated his wife and children and return the favor if it killed him! He'd take more than a finger, he'd rip the chainsaw right off its grotesque arm! When he'd gotten his revenge against that beast, he'd go right ahead and gut the Patriarch too!

The last Clot dropped in front of him, and he could feel Masterson eyeing him uneasily as his combat knife sliced off the freak's index finger. The things had human qualities a-plenty, and the density of their fingers was no exception. A human finger is about as tough as a baby carrot, and whether you bite one off or cut one off it still feels the same. Powers stuffed the finger into one of his pouches, ignoring Corporal Lewis' sideways glances. Heh, chap thought he was being sneaky. Good kid, knew enough to let Powers have what he needed to get him through each day of this Hell on Earth. With a heavy gait Powers made his way towards the entrance of the decrepit manor, tips of his fingers pressing into the splintering wood of the door as he pushed it open.

"Get indoors you lot, I'm not going to get caught out here milling about when the next wave hits."


End file.
